Dark Places
by Kaisa
Summary: Dean never did like small, dark places. Features flashback to cute, cuddly brothers! Deancentric. part five is now up.
1. Chapter 1

Hey, everyone! Okay. So some of you might've read Without (just posted the last chapter yesterday), and this is the oneshot I was talking about. yay.

I rated this T for language! YES! (I mean...fYI...)

And...Um... I don't own Supernatural! But I DO wish they would put some more flashbacks to their cute, cuddly, yet angsty days. That'd be nice. Angst in general is nice too...

There aren't any spoilers, as far as I know. There is one TEENY mention of the shtriga, but nothing that spoilery. This can take place just about anywhere in the season, but probably more towards the end.

Also, I wrote this at 5 in the morning, after watching 6 episodes of Supernatural... so... I was really acting strange, but then when i rewrote it, it sounded better, so here it is!

* * *

Before Dean knew what was happening, he was thrown into a small closet by an unseen force. The door slammed in his face, and he heard the grating noise of something heavy being dragged in front of it, blocking his way out. No matter how hard Dean tried, he couldn't push the door open again.

"Dean!" Sam called from the other side. "Hold on, I'll get you out of there!"

"No," Dean protested. "Kill it first!"

Outside, Sam nodded in agreement. "Okay, I'll be back!" And he ran off, rock salt-loaded shotgun in hand. The spirit that they had been hunting had seemingly disappeared… They were in the spirit's—his name was Dale Ivan—old house. Sam and Dean had figured out that Dale's body was there rather than buried, so all that was left to do was to salt and burn the bones. Only complication, they ran into their old pal Dale. Sam shook his head as he ran—he just wanted to get this done and over with. It had been a long day.

After Sam left, Dean looked around the closet. Maybe there was some sort of light hiding among the old jackets. But there was nothing. The closet was full of black, and it must have been the smallest closet Dean had ever seen…

His eyes darted around the closet, still not seeing anything but darkness and beginning to feel trapped. He hated feeling trapped… He hated it with his entire being, just being stuck in a small, dark place with no way out and no hope for rescue.

_BANG BANG BANG!_

"_Please let me out!"_

Dean winced to himself, laying the palms of his hands on the cool door of the closet. "I can't lose it this time… I have to keep it together," he muttered under his breath. He tried not to remember, but he could feel beads of sweat developing on his brow. _God, Sam, what's taking you so long?_

He looked around. Still black. Still alone. Still quiet.

"_Daddy, please help me!"_

Dean let out a choppy breath, taking a hand off the door to rub his face furiously. He had thought that this would never resurface. He would forget it.

He could never forget it.

"_Daddy, please! I'm scared of the dark! Daddy!"_

_BANG BANG BANG!_

"_DADDY!"

* * *

_

It was years ago, only a week or two after Mary died. John was at a loss, he had no idea what to do. All he did was sit in his daze, and Dean could never reach him. He had to take care of baby Sammy all by himself because John would never respond when Dean would ask for help. After Mary had died, it seemed like all Sam did was cry. Dean had tried everything, but still Sam would cry. The only time his little brother would stop was when he had worn himself out, or if John would snap out of it and cradle his youngest in his arms with tears streaming down his own face.

John would take Sam up and whisper comforting words. He would walk past Dean and back downstairs, sometimes feeding Sam, or sometimes just sitting there, holding the baby.

Four-year-old Dean was confused. Had he somehow turned invisible? Why was it that every time John snapped out of his trance, he would never seem to see or hear him? His daddy had never ignored him before…

"Why does he see you, Sammy?" Dean asked his younger brother late that night. He shoved his little arm through the crib bars and let Sam hold onto his pointer finger. "Why does he see you, and not me?"

Sam only gurgled in response.

"Did I do something bad?" Dean asked, a fear growing in the pit of his stomach. "Does Daddy not…not love me anymore?"

Before he could ponder on the answers to his questions, Dean heard the door open. It was John, Dean knew it. His father had gone out an hour ago, and Dean had been afraid to go to sleep before he came home. He needed to protect Sammy in case another fire came…

Dean rushed up to his father. "Daddy?" he asked warily, his nose wrinkling when he realized, his daddy smelt _weird_. It was a smell that Dean would later recognize as alcohol.

"What are you still doing up, Dean?" John grumbled, rubbing his eyes.

"I-I-I… You can _see_ me?" Dean asked, bewildered. After all this time, he had really begun to believe that maybe he _was_ invisible.

John wearily looked down at his eldest and frowned. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Daddy…I thought—but I thought… You never looked at me, Daddy, I thought…"

"Stop stuttering, Dean!"

Dean's eyes widened. His daddy _never_ raised his voice to him before… Tears began to pool in his eyes when he saw what seemed to be fire dancing in his father's. Before he knew what he was doing, Dean ran up to his father and hugged him tightly. "Daddy…Daddy, I'm _scared_…"

John picked Dean off him and glared. "Dean, there will be _no_ crying! I already get enough of that from your brother!"

Dean's heart beat wildly, fear of his father suddenly sprouting forth. He tried to stop crying, he really did, but tears began to spill down his face, betraying him.

John grabbed Dean by the shoulders, hard. "Don't cry!"

"D-D-Daddy… I'm s-s-s-sorry…," he sniffled. "I'm s-sorry!"

"Be quiet!"

"I-I c-can't… I c-can't stop… I'm scared…"

John let out a long, angry sigh that almost sounded like a growl. "I can't deal with this!" He grabbed Dean's wrist and dragged him down the hall.

Dean stumbled and tried to match his father's quick pace. John stopped in front of the closet, opened the door, and led Dean inside before finally letting go of his wrist.

"D-Daddy?"

"Stay here until you're ready to stop being such a baby," John said, slamming the door and sliding the lock into place. Dean heard his father's retreating footsteps as he walked back down the hall.

Dean looked around fearfully, finding no light source. All around him was darkness, darkness and himself, and the strong sense of being _trapped_. It was then Dean realized that he hated that feeling. He hated the dark, small closet. He hated feeling so _alone_.

Panicked, he began to bang on the door with his fists, new tears falling down his face.

"Daddy! Please let me out! Daddy, please help me! Daddy, please! I'm scared of the dark! Daddy!" Dean screamed. Then he fell silent, hoping to hear John coming to save him. He needed his daddy to come back and let him out. He needed his daddy to hug him and say that he was sorry, and most of all, he needed to hear his daddy say, _I love you, Dean_.

But no sound came. Daddy wasn't coming for him.

Daddy didn't care.

"DADDY!" Dean yelled at the top of his lungs one last time before falling to the hard floor. He felt so _tired_ from crying and yelling. He couldn't do it anymore.

He sniffled and tried to stop crying again. "Daddy…," he whispered. "Daddy, I don't ever wanna be alone… Please come back, Daddy…"

The only noise he heard was his own loud breathing. He felt too tired to do anything anymore. He was scared out of his mind, but all he could do was stay perfectly still, just laying there. Over the next few hours, all he did was stare at the darkness, afraid to close his eyes. Sometimes he would break down and cry again, whispering pleas that no one would ever hear.

Eventually, he fell asleep. All night long he had nightmares of being completely alone, lost in the small closet for the rest of his life.

When he awoke the next morning, he sat there for another few hours, tracing designs he couldn't see on the hard, cold floor. Even though he had gotten some sleep, he still felt tired and sick. He didn't know if it was really morning time, because all he could see was the dark. How he hated the dark. He hated the things he feared. He hated feeling afraid. Most of all, he _hated_ feeling alone.

But finally, the door opened. The light poured in, and Dean had to close his eyes against the harshness of the sun. When his eyes adjusted, he saw his father. Dean instantly shot up, fear once again enveloping him.

"Dean…," John began quietly, rubbing his forehead. "Son, I'm—"

Dean didn't let him finish. He bolted out of the closet and ran as far away from it as he could. He ran to Sammy, who was still sleeping in his crib. And again, he squeezed his arm between the bars, this time rubbing Sam's stomach.

"I don't ever wanna be alone again," Dean whispered to his brother, letting himself be reassured by Sam's presence. "And I'm never gonna let you feel alone either, Sammy. Never ever."

* * *

Dean was brought back to reality after that. He simply couldn't remember anything after that morning. It was like when the shtriga had almost killed Sam—John never talked about it, and he never asked.

Dean slammed a fist into the door. _That was almost twenty-three fucking years ago! I'm better than that crying four-year-old!_

But still his breath seemed to catch in his throat, and his heart beat like it did on that night. He liked this closet just as much as he had like the last one. He really couldn't stand the things. _Good-for-nothing crap-shacks…,_ Dean thought bitterly.

He then sighed, the emotions from all those years ago coming back like some demon that just wouldn't give up. He rubbed his face. If there was something he hated more than feeling trapped like this, it was feeling alone.

He was jerked from his thoughts when he heard the scraping noise of whatever was in front of the closet. Someone was moving it.

The closet door opened, and Sam peered inside. "Dean?"

Dean let out a breath in relief and stepped out, spying a large bookcase pushed to one side. _So that's what was so damn heavy…_

"Did you take care of it?" Dean asked, looking around.

Sam nodded with an accomplished smile. "Yeah. One body, salted and fried, just like you ordered." The smile began to fade from his face as he cocked his head to one side, giving Dean a strange look. For some reason his brother looked slightly paler, and he swore that he saw beads of sweat on Dean's brow.

"What?" Dean demanded irritably, not liking Sam's look.

"Are you okay, man? You look a little—"

Dean tossed Sam a glance over his shoulder. "Dude, I was in a friggin' _closet._ What's the worst that coulda happened?"

_fin

* * *

_

pleeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaase tell me what you think! Coming tomorrow: Escape (another fan fiction that takes place after Devil's Trap)


	2. Chapter 2

HEY! I'm back by request with another chappy. (Thank you to KatieMalfoy19 for inspiration!!!!) Okay, this is allllllll Johnny-boy, he'll be remembering the rest of the morning after he let Dean out. I hope you guys will like this as a follow up, and i do have one question for you (it'll be after the story)

I don't own Supernatural, but it'd be fun if I did...

(PS - I ran the first chapter of this into gizoogle (gizoogle. com that is) and it was kick-ass HILARIOUS! you've gotta check it out)

Okay, let's go.

* * *

"_Don't cry!"_

"_D-D-Daddy… I'm s-s-s-sorry… I'm s-sorry!"_

"_Stay here until you're ready to stop being such a baby,"_

"_Daddy! Please let me out! Daddy, please help me! …DADDY!"_

Gasping loudly, John Winchester shot up in his bed. His eyes darted around the dark motel room, but instinct allowed him to calm down a little. He rubbed the back of his neck, stifling a tired yawn. He swung his legs over the edge of his bed, no longer wanting to sleep.

His shoulders tensed as he remembered the dream. It hadn't just been his imagination—that _had_ happened, so long ago. He hadn't had _that_ dream in a while now.

"Dean…," he sighed to himself, once again feeling the crushing guilt for the wrong he had done all those years ago. Each time he dreamt of the moment he had thrown his son into the closet, his mind forced him to relive the whole morning after. He would fight it, but knew by now it was inevitable.

* * *

_(1983)_

John began to wake up, slowly, first realizing his pounding headache. That was right, he had gone to the bar the last night…

_Shouldn't've had so much alcohol…,_ he chided himself, his thoughts oddly sounding like his mother.

He blinked his tired eyes and also realized that he had fallen asleep on the ratty couch.

Ignoring his headache, he idly wondered if Dean was up yet…

_Dean!_ John's eyes widened, the memories from the last night flooding back in a rush. He hastily jumped from the couch and nearly ran down the hall, to the closet.

_No, no, no, no!_ he thought to himself frantically. _I didn't!_

He fumbled with the lock to the door, finally managing to get it open after he dealt with his trembling hands. He swung the door open, praying he wouldn't find his eldest locked within.

As the light streamed into the unbelievably dark closet, John saw Dean, lying on the floor. Looking at Dean's little face, John noticed that he had been crying. This was wrong—this was all his fault.

Once Dean saw that he was there, he jumped up, staring at John in fear.

"Dean," John began, rubbing his forehead, trying to find the right words to say. _How did I do this? What can I say to him to make him understand that I didn't mean it?_ "Son, I'm—"

Dean didn't let him finished. The four-year-old bolted off, sped past John and down the hall towards Sammy's room.

_I'm sorry,_ John finished for himself. _God, I'm so sorry._ He swallowed hard, holding himself back when the sudden urge to slam his fist into the wall consumed him. Instead, he slowly trudged into the kitchen, grabbing a box of cereal and two bowls. Maybe Dean would forget about what happened…

_He'll never forget… I've scarred him for life,_ John berated himself. _What would Mary think if she knew what I've done?_

He looked to the ceiling, sadly, eyes full of guilt. "I'm so sorry, Mary… I didn't mean to hurt our boy…"

He stood gazing at the ceiling for a few more minutes, almost expecting an answer from the heavens. When no words came, he dropped his head. He poured cereal into the two bowls in front of him, and after grabbing the milk from the fridge, he added that to the bowl as well.

"Dean!" he called, his voice sounding odd because his throat was threatening to close up on him. "Dean, it's time for breakfast!"

After a moment, John could see Dean slowly peeking around the corner and into the kitchen. The little boy eyed the bowl of Lucky Charms warily, but didn't budge. Maybe he suspected a trap?

John forced a small smile, trying to reassure his son. "Come on, sport, eat up."

Dean took a few steps forward, hesitantly. He didn't say a word as he climbed into a seat and grasped the spoon in front of him.

John nodded approvingly and took the seat across from Dean. He would be able to feed Sam a little later, anyway. He picked up his spoon as well and began to eat his cereal. A few bites later, he noticed how Dean let his spoon hover over the cereal, not yet touching it in the past few minutes, fear flashing in those little green eyes.

Dean sensed that John was watching him though. He met his father's eyes for a fraction of a second before ripping them away and shoveling a spoonful of cereal into his mouth.

"Dean, I'm—" John cut himself off this time. He couldn't get the words out… Why couldn't he just apologize? But his throat wouldn't cooperate with him, and his voice wouldn't make a sound. His throat felt so tight, he thought he would probably have trouble swallowing even a grain of rice.

There was silence once again, the only sound being the clinking of spoons against the bowls. As the minutes stretched past them, John found it harder and harder to get those three little words out.

_I'm sorry. I—am—sorry,_ John told himself, as if he would forget these words if he attempted to utter them.

But just as John's mouth opened to try again, the silence was broken with a long cry from down the hall.

John's mouth snapped shut and he stood. "Your brother's hungry," he said, ruffling Dean's hair, as if that would make everything better. As John walked down the hall, he took one glance over his shoulder, trying to see if Dean accepted or even understood his unsaid apology.

His eldest dropped his spoon on the table and blinked hard, shaking slightly.

John turned, wanting to go back and embrace his son, to whisper the apology in his ear and tell him that it would never, _never_ happen again. But before he got the chance, Sam began to cry louder, his wail reminding John that Sam was hungry. John stole one more look at Dean, but turned his back to get Sammy.

* * *

_(2006)_

John rubbed his stinging eyes. _I should've just told him I was sorry. I should have just said that it would be okay and that I loved him… Why didn't I? Why couldn't I?!_

John had never been able to apologize to Dean. His son had been different—he had seemed so different for so long after that. Had he really gone back to normal, or had John just gotten used to the change? He honestly didn't know anymore. He didn't have much memory of the boy Dean used to be—he had been a man for so long now, long before he was even in his teens.

John grabbed his cell phone from the nightstand and flipped it open. He thumbed down his short contact list until _Dean_ was highlighted. He could fix this whole thing right now—he could stop the nightmares, he could rid himself of the guilt. All he had to do was call Dean and apologize. Apologize for what had happened, and for not apologizing sooner.

Before pressing the send button, he hesitated.

_Dean was four years old when that happened,_ he thought to himself slowly. _Would he even remember what happened?_ After a moment of thinking, John shook his head. _No, he wouldn't be able to remember something from so long ago…_

_That's just like saying he doesn't remember the night his mother was killed,_ a voice in his head protested. And even though Dean seemed to hide it, John had this nagging feeling that his son remembered _something_ about Mary's death.

John bit his lip. _He has to remember…_

"He'll remember," John muttered to himself. And with those words, he pressed the send button, perhaps a little harder than necessary. He waited while it rang once, twice, three times.

"_This is Dean Winchester. Can't get to the phone right now. Leave a message."_

John hung up, not even bothering with a message. It wouldn't be the same… He sighed, setting the phone aside and laying back in his bed.

_It'll sound better if I say it in person anyway,_ he thought, though he knew he was just making another excuse. He knew he wouldn't be able to do it then, either. If Dean really didn't remember anything about what had happened, then why should John go dragging up a memory that Dean didn't know existed? And speaking about it with his son would just bring up awkwardness and hurt, not to mention a probably shocked Sam if he were around to hear it.

He could imagine Dean's reaction. His son would turn away and pretend it didn't hurt. He would make a joke about it to try to ease the tension. He'd tell John not to worry about it, that it was a long time ago and he didn't care. But it would all be a lie.

Dean knew John better than anyone, but it was a two-way street.

John closed his eyes. _I'm sorry for not apologizing, Mary,_ he thought to the heavens. _I'm sorry I can't do it just yet. If Dean remembers, he probably already knows I'm sorry, right? Yes, he knows I'm sorry. He knows me better than that. He knows I'm sorry for what I've done, and he knows I'd die for him at the drop of a dime._

_I won't hurt Dean like that again,_ he promised Mary. _I'll protect him and Sammy until the day that I die._

_

* * *

_

Now, kids, before you say anything, lemme tell yah somethin'. I do have an idea for a next chapter, if y'all's interested. (okay, too much gizoogle for me... Now i'm always gonna call Sammy Sizzam...) If you want me to write yet another part, PLEASE review and let me know... because i do have that idea...hmm...it would tie it together, i think...

Okay, talk to you later

-Kaisa


	3. Chapter 3

Hello, everyone, I am back. I wrote this next part whilst on a wonderful train ride. I would have posted this sooner, but FFN wouldn't let me into my account. I was pretty angry, but they let me in today! (yay)

This thing started out with a one-shot, but now, instead of calling it a 'three-shot', I shall change it to 'short story'. Especially since there will probably be one or two more parts after this...

so in this part, there are spoilers for In My Time of Dying. And though I wish I did, I don't own Supernatural at all. Oh, and many thanks for reviews!!

* * *

"Time of death, 10:41 AM," the doctor finally declared.

Sam and Dean were completely speechless. This couldn't be happening.

Their father just died. Their father was _gone_—he was never coming back. And that fact alone hit the boys harder than anything they had ever experienced.

Suddenly, Sam glanced up, for a moment hearing murmuring in his head. He frowned as he listened to the familiar voice closely. _It must be my psychic thing working up again, _he thought to himself as he listened. The words spoken to him didn't cheer him up in the very least, even though they were meant to be encouraging—or maybe for a sense of closure. Once the voice faded away, Sam looked over to his brother, who looked as if he were about to collapse right there.

"Dean…are you okay?" he asked. _God_, he thought, _it looks like his heart stopped_. Once the thought had flashed through his mind, more worry came with it. Dean was still recovering, after all.

Dean swallowed hard, finding himself unable to take his eyes off the lifeless form of the man he had looked up to for his entire life. "I…I'm fine," he answered after a long pause. It was a complete lie, he knew, but maybe if he pretended to be okay, he would eventually believe it. And more importantly, maybe Sam would believe it too.

"You need to get back to your room," a worried nurse told Dean, seeing right through his mask—or the sickly pallor of his face.

"She's right, Dean," Sam agreed, before leading Dean away. He needed to speak with his brother privately.

Once Dean was in bed again, Sam slowly eased himself in the chair next to the bed, a thoughtful look on his face.

"What is it, Sam?" Dean asked, seeing that his brother had something on his mind.

Sam shook his head, as if that would force everything to make sense to him. "It's just…After Dad died, I…I _heard_ something."

Dean tilted his head to one side. "You _heard_ something," he repeated flatly. Frankly he wasn't too interested in anything Sam had _heard_. He just wanted to sleep. Maybe when he woke up, he would realize that it was all some hellish nightmare, and John really wasn't dead. And what kept nagging at Dean was the way John acted right before he died…

Sam nodded. "Yeah, I did," he replied, apparently not noticing the fact that Dean didn't care. "I heard a voice…and it was Dad's."

Dean instantly looked up. "Sammy," he warned sharply.

"No, Dean, just hear me out, okay?" Sam waited until Dean looked like he might be listening before continuing. "He…he said goodbye… He said that he loved us, and he said that we needed to kill the demon…"

"Or maybe it was all your imagination," Dean retorted.

Sam folded his arms across his chest. "No, it wasn't." He watched as Dean shook his head, but he ignored him and said, "After that, he said he was sorry…well, he said he was sorry for a lot of things… But he also told me…he told me to tell you that he was sorry."

"About what?" Dean asked skeptically.

"I don't know. But he said that he wanted to apologize for a really long time. He said 'tell Dean I'm sorry about the closet'."

Dean's eyes widened, the words striking a chord the moment they left Sam's mouth. The _closet_. So John _did_ remember what happened…

"Whatever that means," Sam went on. "But he sounded really upset about it." Sam paused, wondering if that part was his imagination. _I mean, a __closet__ of all things?_ Sam thought to himself.

Dean took a deep breath, now completely believing everything Sam said he had heard. He had never told Sam about the closet, and he knew John didn't either…

Sam gave Dean a look. "Does that make any sense to you, Dean?" he questioned, knowing that Dean knew something from the look in his eyes. "Don't tell me it's some codeword or something."

"…It's not a codeword," Dean said quietly.

"Well, what was it then? It sounded really important."

"I didn't even know he remembered," Dean muttered to himself.

"Remembered what?" Sam asked, not liking the feeling of being out of the loop. "What does it mean?"

Dean completely ignored him. He was happy John apologized, but he never needed to. He didn't understand when he was younger, but he knew now that John was drunk that night. He knew his father didn't mean anything he did that night, so Dean had automatically forgiven him several years ago.

"Dean?"

Dean glanced back at Sam, who looked more than a little confused. He clearly wanted an explanation. "I'm tired," Dean told him. "I'm going to take one of those naps that those nurses are always yapping about."

Sam's face changed from confused to frustrated. "But what does it mean? Sorry about the _closet?_ Can't you tell me?"

But Dean was already asleep—or pretending to be asleep.

_What the hell?_ Sam thought. _Why can't he tell me what Dad's apologizing for? I know it was important to Dad, and apparently it's important to Dean too. Why aren't I allowed to know? It's not like I'm four anymore._

And Sam knew that if he didn't get it out of Dean soon, he would never get another chance.

_I'll make him tell me once he wakes up,_ Sam decided firmly.

* * *

Beneath closed eyes, Dean was being hounded by nightmares. Nightmares of brown-eyed fathers and yellow-eyed girls. What the hell was with that creepy-ass girl anyway? There was something about her…

But what was worse, he was having nightmares about yellow-eyed fathers.

_Damn yellow eyes,_ Dean thought to himself angrily. _I hate those damn yellow eyes. I want to rip them from their sockets._

Familiar scenes flashed before him, of the past year, of all the years before that. He wound up in a familiar little closet, all dark and cold.

The door of the closet swung open, and for a moment, Dean squinted against harsh light. He then saw his father in the doorway—with yellow eyes.

"I wish I had left you in here to die," he said. But then the yellow eyes changed to brown, and he said, "I wish I never put you in here to begin with."

"Dad, I—you don't have to—" he began to say.

The eyes went yellow again. "I did it because I can't stand you." The eyes flicked back to brown. "I'm sorry." It seemed like his father was holding an internal war with the yellow-eyed demon inside him, almost like when the demon had possessed him before. "Dean, I don't want you to listen to that demon," he said firmly. "He's a liar."

Dean nodded. "I know, Dad, I'm not listening to him."

John frowned, cocking his head ever so slightly. "That's not what it looked like when it told you that you were needed."

Dean froze, instantly remembering those words…those words that had hurt him so much.

"How do I know that you believe me now, when I'm saying that I'm sorry, if you can believe that demon when he's spewing complete crap?"

"…I'm sorry, Dad," Dean finally said, softly. "I don't believe him at all—I believe you, I always have. And you don't have to say sorry, because I already know…I've known for a long time."

John began to smile, but the smile twisted into a snarl as the yellow-eyed demon took control again. "Daddy's little boy," he spat venomously before slamming the closet door shut.

* * *

Dean's eyes shot open, his heart racing wildly for who knows what reason. He remembered his dream in all its vividness. But unfortunately, that also meant remembering that his father was dead… It hurt, knowing he was gone. Dean wanted him back so bad that it almost made it hurt more.

He looked over to Sam, who was sleeping in the chair beside Dean's bed. He looked uncomfortable, which only made Dean feel guilty. If it were up to him, it'd be him sleeping in the chair and Sam sleeping on the bed, no matter how battered Dean may be.

He knew that Sam wanted to know what John had meant when he apologized for the closet ordeal, and he also knew that Sam would stop at nothing to pry it out of him—such was the way of Sam Winchester. He would have to face that fact that it would come out sometime, but he was okay with stalling as much as humanly possible too. He could picture Sam's reaction. His brother would react with 'righteous fury' as Dean called it. And then Dean would have to explain every little detail to smooth things over—and to calm Sam down—and then Sam would drop it…hopefully.

* * *

I hope you liked this part. If I get reviews, I shall begin to write the fourth part... with special guest... angry!protective!righteousfury!Sammy.

(tears) I miss John dearly. I'm not sure how, but I want to work in a flashback in one of the next parts with John too. Because he needs to come back into the story somehow.

Well, until next time!


	4. Chapter 4

Finally I'm back with yet another part! I'm so sorry it took a while... I've been trying to post this part for a few weeks now, but FFN (or my crappy PC), wouldn't let me! GR! I am now at my friend's house. She has high speed internet, and I can update my story HERE.. But I wrote this part on the train! I like writing on the train... But I really hope you all like it. I'm now firmly attached to the phrase "angry!protective!righteousfury!Sammy" lol!

I don't own Supernatural, but i'm DYING to see the season premiere

Here we go.

* * *

"How are you feeling, Dean?" Sam asked the next morning, more than a little concerned. His brother looked incredibly tired, only being able to sag against his pillow. There was a faraway look in his half-open eyes. Sam wondered if this was because Dean was only just recovering or because their father had died… Or perhaps it was the evil combination of the two. 

And although he knew he looked like crap, Dean replied, "I'm great." And then, "How are _you?_"

This response only caused Sam to frown. He would have at least wanted to hear the truth for once. All his brother had to say was, _'I feel like shit'_. Because from the looks of it, _that_ was the truth. It wasn't as if Dean had to keep it a secret or anything… Which reminded him…

"So, Dean, about yesterday… Can you tell me what the hell Dad meant by the closet?"

Dean looked away, rolling his eyes. He expected nothing less from his little brother. "It happened a really long time ago. You don't really need to hear about it."

"Maybe not, but I _want_ to hear about it," Sam pushed gently. When Dean glanced at him, but then looked away again, he knew this approach was not working. He narrowed his eyes and leaned forward. "Dean. If you don't tell me what Dad is apologizing for, _I won't stop bothering you about it."_

This caught Dean's attention. It was mostly because he knew Sam really meant what he said. That kid could make a living out of nagging people. Like when people didn't pay their bills when they were supposed to. The government would just send out their secret weapon—Sam. They would send Sam after those poor souls to _nag_ them to _death_.

He finally sighed loudly, shaking his head. "Okay. Fine." The worst thing about Sam's nagging is the fact that Dean almost always found himself spilling before the actual nagging began. But it was bound to come out anyway…

Sam folded his arms across his chest, satisfied. "Okay, then," he said, his voice returning back to the sympathetic brother. "Go ahead, Dean…"

Dean didn't appreciate the sympathy, and threw his brother a _'that's __so__ not helping!'_ look.

Sam shrugged in return.

"Well," Dean began slowly, not meeting Sam's eyes. How should he begin? "It…it happened only a few days…or maybe a week…after Mom died. Dad was really…depressed…about the whole thing. He went out drinking a lot."

"He _went out_? As in _left_ _us behind_? Alone? When you were only _four_?" Sam burst out, thinking of all the terrible things that could happen to a four-year-old and a baby when they were left alone—right after a demon killed their mother, too.

"He wasn't thinking straight," Dean defended. He knew this feeling well. When you're so sad…so miserable…about something, you kind of lose sight of more important things.

Sam frowned, but he indicated for Dean to go on.

"He came home drunk one night…," Dean said. "It…it was really late, but I was still up…"

"Why?" Sam inquired.

Dean gave him a look. "Uh, because I had a baby brother who needed to be protected, and I was the only one in the house. Besides, even if I had ignored you and tried to go to sleep, I wouldn't have been able to—you cried, like, nonstop.

Sam didn't reply to this. Even when he was a baby, Dean still had taken care of him—had protected him. Part of Sam wondered what they would be like if Dean didn't feel the need to protect him so much.

"But anyway, Dad came home drunk, and it was really late." Dean struggled to remember the details, but everything between Dad coming home and Dad locking him in the closet was a little fuzzy. "Uh…Dad, he asked me what I was still doing up…and I…"

Dean's eyes widened as he remembered.

"_What are you still doing up, Dean?" John grumbled, rubbing his eyes._

"_I-I-I… You can __see__ me?" Dean asked, bewildered. After all this time, he had really begun to believe that maybe he __was__ invisible._

"I…was shocked that he was talking to me…" Dean trailed off. And at Sam's puzzled look, he added, "Because he hadn't talked to me that much after Mom died." Dean paused for a moment, remembering more details as he thought back. It was so strange…it felt like a dream…or someone else's life… It didn't seem real at all. "I…I was scared," Dean recalled.

Sam's face softened, trying to imagine a small, fearful Dean, probably afraid of nearly everything after Mom died… It was a really hard thing to imagine. All Sam could remember was a courageous, protective big brother…

"He was so drunk, Sam…," Dean whispered. "I remember he said something like he couldn't listen to what I had to say or he couldn't deal with me right now…" He shook his head, not really remembering John's exact words. "He got frustrated and upset, and so…" He could still hear the lock sliding into place, could still hear the retreating footsteps—coming from somewhere deep in his memory. "He locked me in the closet." Once the words were out of Dean's mouth, he shrugged, feeling an incredible urge to just make light of it. But he saw the change on Sam's face.

Sam looked down, trying to contain himself. "Dean… How long did he leave you in there?" He knew Dean looked upset after he had been stuck in that closet when they had hunted that ghost a few months back, but he never would have thought…

"I think…I think he forgot I was in there, Sam… He let me out the next morning."

Sam bit his lip and shook his head angrily. If that had happened to him when he told his father that he was _scared_… Fathers should comfort their children when they're scared, not lock them away.

"I don't believe it," Sam said in a low voice.

"What?" Dean asked, not catching what Sam had said.

"I don't believe he could do that." And, in a louder voice, he said, "I can't believe he could have done that to you, Dean!"

_Righteous fury Sam,_ Dean couldn't help but thinking.

"I mean, you were his _son_. His _son!_ And he threw you away like you were…were…" Sam shook his head again. It just wasn't _right._

Dean glared. "Sammy, it wasn't like that. I told you. He was drunk."

But Sam went on as if Dean had stayed silent. "He just _locked_ you in the closet and _left_ you there? Like that would solve his problems? Like that would make it all better? Like that would bring Mom back?" He bit his tongue angrily. He wished with all his heart that he could have been old enough to do something to protect Dean from this—it had obviously been wearing on him for a while.

"HEY!" Dean yelled, now angry himself. "It _wasn't his fault!_ It was _mine,_ for being such a friggin' idiot! I should've just understood what he was going through and be fine with it. I shouldn't have started crying like a scared little baby when he came home. He was going through _much worse_ than I was!"

"Dean, you were _four years old!_ How can you say that?! You're not gonna understand—"

Dean shook his head, cutting his brother off. "You should at least be able to understand what he was going through. What would've happened if a crying kid came up to you while you were drunk after Jessica died?" It was a low blow, bringing up Jessica, but Dean thought it would make Sam see his point of view.

Sam pursed his lips in silent contemplation. "I wouldn't…I wouldn't have locked him in a closet," he muttered angrily. "And that doesn't really explain why Dad apologized for it now of all times. You already knew he was sorry, right?"

"Yeah," Dean mumbled.

Sam felt a little better, but that feeling only lasted for a split second.

"But he never told me he was sorry until now," Dean admitted.

Sam looked up. "What's _that_ supposed to mean?"

"Just what it sounded like. He never said he was sorry until yesterday. I just always knew he was sorry. There must have been times he wanted to apologize, but couldn't… I forgave him a long time ago."

"He didn't even say he was sorry?!" Sam asked angrily. If his father was still alive… Sam stopped in mid-thought, his eyes widening as he once again realized that he would never see his father again. It hurt, realizing that, and it probably hurt Dean even more. It probably hurt to just talk about their father right after he…

It probably hurt just to hear Sam talking the way he was.

Dean gave him a warning look, and Sam knew this was true.

"Hey…," Sam began again, quieter this time. "I miss Dad too, you know. I know it sounds bad because I'm really angry with what he did to you…but…" He shrugged. "He was still our dad."

Dean was surprised at the change of subject. Usually, Sam talked a subject to death. Dean sighed, and finally responded, "I know."

He and Sam fell silent, both of their thoughts on their father.

_I miss him already,_ they thought in unison.

* * *

...I miss John! AH! I hope you liked this chapter! Please leave a review, I can't write without them! 

Next chapter I hope to bring in a flashback, and...i'm not sure what else... I know it, but it slipped my mind. Hopefully i'll be able to post the next part soon!

**angry!protective!righteousfury!Sammy: If you don't review, I'll nag you to death!**

**Me:** **...uh oh...**


	5. Chapter 5

Yes. BE SHOCKED. I ACTUALLY updated. It took so long because I wrote so many other stories, and I wasn't sure what I wanted to do for this chapter. I knew I wanted a flash back, but... well, you know... i don't know what i'm saying...

Well, please enjoy this chapter anyway! It's mostly told from Sam's point of view. There aren't any REAL spoilers at the end. maybe a tiny for the beginning of season two, but that's old news.

And guess what? I don't own Supernatural. Yeah, I know, you really thought I did. But I do not! So suing in a no-no!

please enjoy!

* * *

_(1993)_

Sam carefully aimed his gun at the soda cans in the distance and fired off a handful of shots, trying to keep his hand steady all the while. He cringed as every shot missed his target, and once more when he felt his father's eyes boring into his back. He was _sure_ that he'd do a whole lot better if his dad wasn't _staring_ at him like that.

Sam glanced over to his big brother. Dean was really good at shooting stuff. He always hit his targets. He even got to use a real gun—while Sam was still using a pellet gun. Not that Sam was particularly jealous of that fact—he didn't really care for guns. They were too noisy and kinda scary. Not to mention he was really sick of practicing with them every day.

He looked over his shoulder, where John was frowning at him. "C'mon, Sammy, shoot down the cans."

"I can't! They're way too far away!" Sam complained. He was right, he knew it. The cans were further away than ever before, which meant that he had _more_ trouble than he usually did.

"Yes you _can_," John insisted. "And I don't want to see _either_ of you until you both knock down every one of those targets." He gave Sam a look. "Don't move from your spots. That means you _don't_ go any closer to the targets."

Sam folded his arms across his chest huffily. Okay, so that had happened _once._ But that was a whole year ago!

John handed Dean a few more bullets before turning to go back inside. "And Dean, don't you dare shoot your brother's targets for him!"

_That_ had happened a few times, too.

Dean was silent, looking out onto their targets. Empty soda cans for Sam, and eight-ounce bottles filled with water for Dean. "Both of us have six targets left," he said quietly, frowning to himself.

Sam, sensing that something was wrong, looked up to his brother with wide eyes. "What is it, Dean?"

Dean met his eyes and smiled. "If you hit all your targets, I'll tell you."

Sam pouted. "But I can't! I'm really bad at shooting…" He clenched his fists. "I'm no good at this." He really wasn't. And he wanted to be good, he really did. He wanted to be cool, like his brother. Screw trying to make Dad proud of him—that was a lost cause, Sam had figured that out a while ago. He wanted to make his brother proud.

"That's not true, Sammy. You're really good at this. You just don't know it yet." Dean patted Sam's shoulder in reassurance. "Don't worry about it, okay? Here, watch. You want to hold your gun more like this." He held up his gun for example, pointing it at his targets. "And remember, you want to keep both eyes open, and make sure the barrel is pointed at your target…" He watched as Sam copied him, and nodded. "Yeah, just like that." He stood behind his brother, leaning down to check his position. "Yeah, yeah, yeah, okay. Shoot it."

Sam pulled the trigger a few times. Joy filled him as he heard the _ting_ of his pellets on the can, and he happily observed as his enemy the soda can fell from its perch. He gave Dean a wide smile. "Haha!"

Dean returned his smile. "Good job, Sammy."

Yep, Sam thought happily, Dean was the only one who said _that_ to him.

"You better hurry and shoot the rest of your targets." Dean looked up to the darkening sky. "It looks like it's going to storm soon." He watched his brother shoot down three more of his targets before he shot down four of his own. When he looked back to Sam once more, his little brother had already knocked down his last target. It was pretty easy when you had virtually unlimited ammo.

"Yay!" Sam cheered. That must have been a personal record. He could never shoot them down that fast. But a second later, he frowned. "Now tell me what's wrong, Dean. You usually shoot down the targets really fast."

"I'm just thinking… I mean… Well, you know how Dad is."

"Huh?" Sam paused, confused. "Yeah, but what does Dad… What did he do?"

Dean opened his hand and showed Sam a single bullet. "This one bullet is the last one I've got left."

Sam looked to Dean's targets. There were two left.

"Yeah. Dad only gave me five bullets," Dean told him.

"Well, he probably forgot to give you enough. Just as for another."

Dean shook his head. "You _know_ how Dad is. He gave me five bullets on purpose. He wanted to see what I'd do. I can't really shoot down two targets with one bullet, and I can't go anywhere until I knock them all down…"

Sam frowned again. "I'm sure you'll figure something out, Dean. Don't worry, I'll stay here with you."

"No, Sammy, you're done. Dad wouldn't want you staying here with me. I'll be in when I'm done… I shouldn't be too much longer."

Sam didn't want to argue, so he walked back to the small hunting cabin that they were staying in. He felt kind of angry. Not because Dean had tricked him into shooting all his targets before telling him that he didn't have enough bullets. Dean knew that Sam would want to stay out there with him, and had planned it carefully so Sam wouldn't have to do so. Sam didn't exactly take kindly to being tricked like that, but there was something else that was upsetting him that took his mind off it. Why would Dad only give Dean five bullets when he needed six? Sam glared. All his tests and training was just dumb. It didn't help them at all. It just made them sore and upset. Of course, Sam would never tell his father what he thought. His dad was scary when he was angry. But he had told Bobby once, and he'd always remember how Bobby had replied.

"_Your daddy is just trying to protect you from all the evil out there. He's making you stronger so you can __fight__ evil, instead of being killed by it. One day you're gonna thank him. Because one day, you'll be happy to be strong, to protect yourself and the ones you love._"

Yeah, okay. If he could really protect the people he loved, then he wished he could be the strongest guy in the world… Okay, the second strongest. Dean would always be the strongest.

But he was pretty sure he wouldn't ever thank his dad for being so hard on him and his brother. He remembered when Dean had the chicken pox last year. His brother tried so hard to hide all the spots by wearing long sleeves. Even the first tiny spots on his face could have just passed as acne. But Sam knew a complete _idiot_ could tell that Dean was sick. His brother kept coughing and scratching and all that gross stuff sick people did. Dean really did try to restrain from coughing when his father was nearby, but Sam didn't think his father would notice if Dean threw up on his boots. That just made Sam so _angry._ His brother was really awesome. He didn't know how Dad could just be such a jerk to him sometimes.

So since Dad didn't notice that Dean was sick, Sam had concluded that Dad must have been a complete idiot. Dad had sent him and Dean outside to shoot targets and run laps and practice tracking. It had been really hard on Sam, trying to run laps in a foot of snow. He had kept tripping, his face falling into the cold snow. And throughout all that, Dean was lagging way behind him, all red in the face. It didn't stop him from constantly asking if Sam was all right.

It wasn't until Dean collapsed—four hours later, while they were tracking—when Dad had finally come to his senses.

At that very moment, Sam thought that Dad cared. John had scooped up his eldest and rushed him into the house, looking concerned and maybe even scared. But Sam didn't get it—Dad hadn't even noticed in the first place… If he really cared, wouldn't he have noticed? But if he didn't, he wouldn't have reacted that way, would he? It only confused Sam. Maybe it was one of those things that he couldn't understand because he was 'too young'. There were a lot of those things…Too many…

Sam shook his head, trying to clear it of the past. He pushed the cabin door open and walked inside, kicking off his shoes and heading to the couch. His father in the chair beside the couch, reading a newspaper.

Sam bounced up on the couch and stared out the window. Dean only had one target left now, and it looked like he was still thinking about how to take it down.

Sam watched as his brother took out his knife and threw it at his target. Sam grew excited, but was disappointed when the knife only nicked the target. Dean stood completely still for a long time.

_I guess he only had that one knife on him_, Sam thought.

He turned away from the window for a moment, frowning at his father. "Dad. Why'd you only give Dean five bullets?"

He thought that maybe his dad would look up, surprised, and say, "Oh no, I did? I better give him another one, then."

But instead, he said, "Because, Sam, on a real hunt, there is a possibility that you could run out of ammo."

Sam glared, confused. "Then we always make sure we have _lots_ of ammo. You don't have to make Dean sit out there trying to knock down a target without a bullet."

"Sam…," John warned, eyes not leaving the paper.

Sam's glare grew, but he didn't talk back. He went back to the window, pressing his face against the glass, not caring if his forehead, nose, or chin smudged it. "Daaaaaad," he finally said.

John stopped reading for a second. "What now?"

"It's raining." Sam waited for his father's response, but when he didn't get one, he went on, "Dean's gonna get all gross and wet. Tell him to come back in."

"Are all of his targets down?"

Sam seriously considered lying to his father and saying yet, but he couldn't bring himself to say it. "No…" He squinted out the window. Dean was staring at the ground. He then kneeled down, running his hand across the mud as if he had dropped something and now it was lost somewhere in the muddy mess. Sam pressed his face against the glass even harder, waiting for long minutes, until Dean stood again, the knees of his jeans all muddy and something clasped in his hand.

Sam wasn't sure what it was, but watched as his brother hurled it at his target with amazing speed. Sam didn't know for sure, but he saw the bottle of water _explode!_ He heard a huge _boom__!_ from the explosion, and fire burst everywhere!

"Whoa!" Sam whispered in excitement, thought he knew the boom was thunder and the explosion in his imagination. "Dean is so cool!"

A moment later, Dean threw the door open and clomped inside. He threw off his boots and wiped his muddy hands on his jeans.

John didn't look up from the paper. "What'd you get it with?"

"A rock." And Dean began to walk to the room he and Sam shared.

"Best to figure it out faster that time. You'd be dead if that was a real hunt."

Dean didn't even stop at his father's words, but threw a 'yes sir' over his shoulder.

Sam scampered after his brother. "That was so cool, Dean! You should be a baseball pitcher!"

Dean chucked as he peeled off his sopping shirt. "Thanks…I think."

Sam jumped on his bed. "Why didn't you yell at Dad for not giving you enough bullets? He made you stand in the rain!"

"No, _I_ made me stand in the rain. If I had thrown a rock at it sooner, I wouldn't have gotten wet at all. That was pretty dumb of me."

Sam folded his arms across his chest. "Well _I_ thought it was cool."

* * *

_(2006)_

Sam blinked open his eyes tiredly. That was kind of weird—dreaming of something that had happened so long ago… He remembered the whole thing like it was yesterday.

He glanced over to Dean, who wasn't in his bed but in the chair by the window, asleep.

Sam sighed quietly. How could he dream about the past when all he could think about was what was happening now? It had only been a month since he and Dean had burned John. But in that month, so much had happened. Dean had changed… It was really beginning to scare Sam. It was all because of their father—some stupid deal that he had made. Dean had said it was obvious before. It was the colt and Dad for him, simple as that. But now Dean felt that it was his fault that Dad was gone. Nothing could change that—Sam couldn't even suggest anything different without getting an icy cold glare.

He felt awkward. He couldn't talk to his brother the same way. He couldn't _look_ at his brother the same way. Lately, the way Dean had been hunting mercilessly…it was scary. The look in his brother's eyes while he killed things like that was even worse. Sam hated that he could barely do anything about it. He felt like Dean was drowning, and Sam wasn't strong enough to save him.

He bit his tongue. He was just really _scared_. This was never supposed to happen. This wasn't supposed to happen to his brother. It reeked of something wrong—something evil.

"Sammy? Why aren't you sleeping?"

Dean had woken up, almost as if sensing Sam's anxiety. He blinked tiredly at his brother.

"Um, just woke up because my feet were cold."

Dean accepted this. "Okay…" He picked up the gun he had been cleaning before he had fallen asleep. He seemed to clean them a lot lately. Maybe it was a weird thing Dean did to relieve stress. Sam wasn't sure.

"Dean, why don't you get in bed and sleep like a normal person."

Dean glared slightly at _like a normal person_ and kept cleaning. "No thanks. I want to be ready for tomorrow."

Right. Tomorrow he'd get another great chance to see Dean in creepy killer mode. Sam shuddered. "But you must have cleaned the guns a million times already, Dean. You should get some rest. You can't kill anything in your sleep, you know."

"Coffee, Sam. Coffee."

Sam shook his head. "Well _I'm_ going to go to sleep." And with that, Sam turned over and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force the picture of Dean slaughtering vampires out of his mind. He hoped it wasn't like that this time.

* * *

I really like little Sammy. lol. For the next chapter I'm thinking of another flash back that's more from Dean's point of view. and after that? I HAVE NO IDEA. Cuz, you see, since I only really planned this thing to be one chapter long, I never thought this far. I'm going to have to start thinking about how to end this thing. lol.

Please review!


End file.
